Like so many other Americans who treat self-improvement as an ersatz religion, I harbor a handful of niggling goals that I can never fully implement. These are not the typical “lose ten pounds,” “volunteer,” and “save money.” I gave up on those a long time ago. Lose ten pounds? I have better things to do (I do! I swear!). And volunteer? While I am attempting to turn Bonnie into a therapy dog (though she is ill-mannered and will never pass the test)
for the ostensible benevolent purpose of brightening the days of convalescing old folks, really, I just want to be able to take her inside Trader Joe’s. Saving money for me is the ongoing debate of when to go to the Coinstar, with the time window constantly diminishing. I used to go once a year and come home with like 200 bucks to blow on a facial/massage at a nail salon and dinner at Café Noir. Then it would be like 80 bucks every six months, spent on one Lifebooker laser hair removal treatment. The results have been, er, spotty. Now I haul my pittance of pennies and silver pieces once a month, and treat myself to Chipotle on the way home, feeling like a wealthy woman.
The glitterati cannot help but stalk the movements of architecture’s latest rising star. Here I am, all up in the Paris Review blog whhhuuuttttt?!?!?!
Nothing says “slow news week” like my ARCHITECTURE being featured in THE NEW YORK TIMES! Read all about it here.
The culprit: my creation, which just happens to resemble a Vegas shopping mall, inspired by David Foster Wallace’s “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again.”
I’m big in the Philippines. I mean HUGE! Literally, that is. I spent a glorious week sampling the delicassies, like this guy
and being serendaded by blind bands. The Philippines is at the fore of blind entertainment, as evidence by this video and this video, and this guy, who also provides massages.
I once contended that Barney Frank is my spirit animal. Why? “He talks like he has a mouth full of bologna,” “we would watch Golden Girls together with our hair in curlers,” and he is an “American hero.” Nothing quite like quoting yourself, back when you used to be funny. I stand by this, especially since my figure resembles Frank’s zaftig physique more and more in my advanced age.
But I recently had the pleasure of visiting God’s country, the Philippines, through which a former equally rotund legislator (though far less progressive), William Howard Taft, was transported via riding chair through the country of 7,100 islands. A few years ago I thought I was really cool and bohemian, having backpacked in grungy glory to the Leonardo DiCaprio beach and danced in full moonlight in body paint on the shores of Thailand. Amateur, I tell you. If you are a sentient human being and desire to open new horizons via riding chair or just on foot like a mere mortal, the Philippines is where it’s at. Continue reading
Jean-Luc Godard said that, but you know who said so much more? Director Cathryne Czubek, in our Hairpin interview, that’s who! Her film A GIRL AND A GUN is available on On Demand and iTunes, so get thee to a device and devour it, because it’s a rich, dynamic, complex portrait of female gun ownership that defies any tidy categorization. Girls and guns! What more do you need?! Read the whole interview here.
Did you know that moi is a lefty radical?! Me neither, that is until I had occasion to write an article on one of my personal heros, Ms. Parker Posey, for the publication, and now I’m a dumpster diving freegan! The magazine was kind enough to send me a PDF, copied below because after tinkering with this blasted machine for 45 minutes I cannot find a more sophisticated way to relay this text to you, dear reader. But you should go to DISSENT and buy lots of copies of the venerable Upper West Side journal and become a pinko too!
Parker Posey: Film Economics and Funny Girls
When the audio book of Betty Friedan’s Feminine Mystique was to be recorded back in 2009, producers approached Parker Posey to voice the canonical feminist text. Most known for her portrayal of lovable slacker ditzes such as the soft-serve- wielding Libby Mae in Waiting for Guffman; Darla, the sadistic freshman hazer in Dazed and Confused; and of course Mary, the Gaultier-obsessed ersatz club promoter in Party Girl, Posey might, at first glance, seem an odd choice. How would the so-called “queen of the indies,” synonymous with nineties froth, imbue the requisite gravitas into women’s mid-century domestic oppression of matching slipcover fabric and chauffeuring the children to Cub Scouts and Brownies? Continue reading